The Plan
by Lalaith Quetzalli
Summary: (One-Shot) Magnussen's murder, John forgiving Mary for her lies, Sherlock's near exile, Moriarty's image appearing on every screen across London... none of it was coincidence, it was all part of a plan. A plan about to be put into motion... AGRA would pay. (Follows canon HLV-ending) HLV Fix-It - Slash - Evil Mary


I don't own Sherlock, yadda, yadda... that disclaimer also applies for James Bond, since John being former MI6 and a 00 candidate has become sort-of my headcannon since I began this series (which also means, for those interested, that certain flashbacks written in License to Kill ant other pieces, apply for this one too).

So this is it, we've reached the final part of this series/collection. And because it's only right, this particular fix-it will tackle the canonical version of His Last Vow (no crossovers, no divergent paths, different endings or anythings... though some things happened 'off-screen' that you'll be made aware of).

One thing I really think needs to be stressed out here. MARY IS EVIL in this one; and, as a consequence, I'm not nice to her. So if you don't like that, then I'm really sorry, but that's just how things came out. Also, for the first and only time in this whole series the unborn baby is truly John's child (it seemed only right, for this one).

As always, a million thanks for Ariane DeVere for her transcripts. This whole series (and many more Sherlock BBC fics, I'm sure) wouldn't exist without all the work you've put on those.

Also, as always, I'm Mexican, which means British slang eludes me for the most part, though I made more of an effort than before. I don't have a beta, but I try really hard to clean up my own mistakes, hope it went alright.

Now, here you go, and hope you enjoy!

* * *

 **The Plan**

" _Just the two of us against the rest of the world." SH_

John and Mary stood side by side, just outside the government car which held Mycroft Holmes and his PA (whom John still called Anthea in public). The eyes of both of them were fixed straight on the small TV inside the vehicle, and the image being shown there. Which, according to Anthea's explanation, was appearing in every single screen in London, possibly the UK.

Mycroft had left them almost right away to answer a call from Lady Smallwood (and the other high-nobles in the House of Lords), and then place a call himself.

"But he's dead." Mary blurted out suddenly. "I mean, you told me he was dead, Moriarty."

John's facial expression gave away nothing at all, though inside... inside a first check-mark appeared, in a list only three people knew of.

"Absolutely." He said out-loud. "He blew his own brains out."

Granted, few people could be expected to know that, even Scotland Yard did not know; Mycroft had taken care of it all personally, most people had never even seen the body, though Molly Hooper herself had examined it and pronounced him dead by impact of a bullet to the brain (he'd basically 'eaten lead' or 'bitten a bullet', like some of his American army mates used to say). And in any case, there needed to be a body in Sherlock's casket back when he'd faked his suicide...

"So how can he be back?" Mary insisted, sounding particularly anxious.

A second mental check-mark appeared.

"Well, if he is..." John murmured softly, eyes fixed to a side. "He'd better wrap up warm." His wife followed his eyes, to the small plane landing once again. "There's an East Wind coming."

There was, indeed, an East Wind coming, and it would be taking the unworthy... every single one of them...

 **xXx**

"Mycroft wants us to move into one of his safe houses." John stated.

It was later on the same day, evening already, and John was trying his best to convince his wife that moving was their best option.

"But you said he was dead!" Mary insisted, her voice becoming almost hysterical in her denial. "You said he was dead, gone, forever!"

"He was, or at least he should have been." John insisted, trying not to raise his voice too much. "There had never before been any reason to believe otherwise. But if he's back..." He took a deep breath, as if gathering his courage. "If he's back then he'll want revenge Mary, against Sherlock, and probably against everyone else who's close to him."

"If that's the case, can't you just stay away?" She proposed. "Wouldn't that be enough to keep you... to keep us both safe?"

John's brow furrowed and his eyes darkened, but he forced himself to keep his focus on the current time and conversation.

"It's no secret that I'm Sherlock's best friend." He stated, trying to sound reasonable. "Also, as Magnussen could attest, were he still to breathe, you and I are the easiest targets, when it comes to forcing Sherlock's hand." He stopped, taking a deep breath, keeping his voice from rising, before turning his eyes emphatically to his wife's middle. "I don't want you to be in danger, or her. We need to do the smart thing here."

John could see Mary was still doubting, but in the end the mention of their daughter, of her safety, won her over. So she agreed. An hour later the two were packed and climbing on a nondescript car sent by the eldest Holmes, on the way to a townhouse, to safety.

That wasn't the last time they argued about the matter, in fact they did exactly that every other day. Mary's 'greatest weapon' during those fights was the fact that while she stayed in the safe house, John would still go out, and it wasn't even to work (Mycroft had made arrangements, and as far as his co-workers were concerned, John was on a very important medical conference). Every day he would go help Sherlock with the case. Mary didn't understand why it was alright for him to go out, and not for her...

John had gone as far as getting authorization from Mycroft to get someone else in for a visit one day, Janine. Regardless of any other details, she was still Mary's best friend (and, surprisingly, she had become a friend of Sherlock's since the whole fake-engagement). It didn't help, in fact, it might just have made things worse, when Janine decided to tell Mary some things she'd heard from Sherlock about the investigation, including how the two men had gone hunting down a lead across the London rooftops, before eventually getting in a shooting.

"Am I a prisoner now?!" She demanded one particularly bad day.

"What...?" John wasn't expecting that one.

"You brought me here supposedly for our safety, this was supposed to be necessary for all of us." She stated coldly. "And yet in the end I'm the one locked up in this house, while you run around through alleys and rooftops with Sherlock, almost getting killed every single day!" She huffed. "And you know what's worse, I could be going out every single day, I bet you wouldn't even notice, you're too busy being with Sherlock."

She looked for a moment as if she were waiting for some kind of response to the suggestion of her leaving the house; but John didn't focus on that, instead trying to pacify her the only way he knew how to.

"We're working on a case, Mary." John reminded his wife, trying not to sound too cross, it was getting harder. "This case. We need to find out what's going on. So we can be safe. So we can all go home, and be sure that our baby-girl will be safe."

"Baby-girl?" Mary repeated. "We still haven't given her a name!"

"I..." John hesitated just for a second before talking. "I actually thought of one, though I'm not sure what you'll think of it."

"Why haven't you told me?" Mary asked, confused. "When did you think of it?"

"In the times off during the day, whenever Sherlock gets lost in his mind palace or something." He explained, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment. "I downloaded a huge file with baby girl names and their meanings."

"Well?" Mary demanded, this time with the hint of a smile. "Tell me then!"

"Minna." John said quietly. "It's... a variation or something of Wilhelmina, the meaning is either 'protective will' or 'desire for protection', something along those lines and..."

He broke off, either not quite sure what else to say, or just not wanting to say whatever was on his mind. Still, that seemed to be enough.

"I like it." Mary admitted. "It sounds pretty, and not at all normal."

"Why should our baby have a normal name?" John snorted. "Granted, you and I have some of the most common names in the world, but we're not common at all, are we? And our daughter won't be either. She'll be special."

"Yes, yes she will." Mary agreed. "And well, we agreed you would give her the first name, and I would choose her middle one. And I have one."

"Which is?" He prompted.

"Alice." She announced, face kept carefully blank.

"Family name?" John inquired, carefully keeping himself from sounding angry.

"No." The answer came too fast, almost too sharp. "Just someone I knew once."

John nodded and did not insist, though he knew that wasn't the full truth. It was better that way. That was the first conversation the two of them had had in months (since his return to her) that didn't end in shouting or tears.

Of course, the good couldn't last forever. Before the end of the next week Mary was complaining again about having to stay in the safe house all the time.

"I can stay with you tomorrow if you want." John offered in a placating tone. "That way at least you won't be alone."

"This isn't about me being alone." Mary hissed angrily. "This is about me being treated like a prisoner! I thought Magnussen being dead would actually allow me to remain free! Isn't that why Sherlock and you did all that craziness?"

John was speechless for just a moment, he wouldn't call it 'craziness', all that had happened at Appledore; everything Sherlock had done, the price he'd been willing to pay... Did Mary really not understand? Or was it only that she didn't care? John suspected the answer, as well as the fact that it was one he wasn't going to like.

It all came to a head at the end of January:

"You just want to keep me here so you can keep screwing Sherlock!"

Mary's words, after she screamed them at top volume, kept echoing in the room for what seemed like forever. John couldn't quite believe what he'd just heard, and it showed.

"Wha... excuse me, what?!" His voice went through an octave in his shock. "Did you... you cannot honestly... Mary!"

"What?!" She snarled back at him. "I'm not stupid John. And it's not like it's a new thing, is it? He's your best friend, after all, your flatmate, your partner... do you honestly think I'm stupid?"

"I honestly cannot say what I think you are right now..." John's words were getting mixed a bit, he knew that, but he was honestly so shocked. "You honestly think I've been cheating on you with Sherlock?!"

"Don't know." She shrugged, trying to seem blasé about it. "Maybe you've been cheating on him with me. After all, you were with him first."

"We were flatmates!" John insisted. "Best friends and flatmates, nothing more. In case you missed it at some point. I Am Not Gay!"

"That doesn't mean you're straight." She retorted. "And, who knows? Maybe you really were nothing more back before he jumped off that rooftop, but that means nothing about what's happened since he returned." Her eyes narrowed. "A stag-night of only two people, please! Do you really think I'm that stupid? That blind?"

"I honestly don't know what you are Mary, but the fact that you keep insisting on me being a cheater, when I've never broken my vows to you..." He swallowed the hurt he couldn't help but feel. "I take offense to that."

"You moved back to Baker Street, stayed with him, waited on him hand on foot for months." She was practically whining by that point. "You left me for months while I was pregnant! Probably wouldn't even have talked to me at Christmas if Mr. and Mrs. Holmes hadn't invited us over. What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to think that I am a good man, one who would never cheat on you, and I did the things I did because I was looking after my best friend. Whom, by the way, was in that delicate a condition because of you. Because you shot him! Should I remind you that?"

"You forgave me for that."

"Never said I would forget it."

Matter of fact, he'd pretty much warned her his anger might come out every so often.

For a moment not a word was said, the tension such it could have been cut with a knife and...

"Maybe things would have been better if Sherlock had stayed dead."

John had no answer to that, though his face told enough. Also, the words had been said so quietly he couldn't help but wonder if Mary had intended for him to hear them at all.

"Mary..." He began, voice breaking slightly.

"Is there even a good reason for me to be here?" She demanded, cutting him off. "I mean, you say Jim's back, but for all I know that was just a ploy so Sherlock wouldn't be sent off on that stupid suicide mission..."

John's eyes widened halfway through her tirade, only to grow cold a few seconds later. He then turned his back on Mary, ignoring her completely as he pulled out his phone, in a few quick strokes of the keys sending a prearranged message to a specific number.

"John..." She called, seemingly confused by his sudden attitude.

Her husband seemed to be ignoring her completely as he raised his phone at eye level, before entering a number, slowly.

"I need to call Mycroft..." The doctor murmured, as if talking to himself.

He never saw the lamp coming at him, only feeling the pain in the back of his head for an instant before collapsing to the carpeted floor, unconscious.

In a matter of minutes, two thugs in dark clothes were in the house, they took hold of John and left the way they'd come, through the cellar, which was surreptitiously connected to another townhouse, behind the one they were in (they'd been part of the same property, many years prior); Mary following after them, handbag in hand. Neither of them noticed the mobile John had dropped when being knocked out, or the last message sent: _'Rohde is a go.'_

 **xXx**

" _So... what's the plan then?"_

 _The Holmes brothers turned to look at him with near identical looks that would appear blank to almost anyone, John could clearly see the confusion hidden in a corner of their eyes (the eldest's gray-blue, the youngest's a dazzling mix of blue, green and gold -he had partial heterochromia-). The brothers had been arguing something in that particular style they had, which seemingly allowed them to only actually say two or three words of every ten out-loud, while still keeping up with the other with no problem._

" _I know you, both of you." John stated in a very no-nonsense tone. "You are planning something, you always are. Last time I might have been too blind, too worried over the wrong things to truly realize what was going on. Not this time. This time I know, and I want in."_

 _It had been almost a week since Sherlock's second 'visit' to the hospital, and he'd only been back in Baker Street for two days. While he hadn't been too bad off, despite leaving the hospital without medical authorization the first time around, and opening some of his stitches; the doctor had refused to sign his release for more days than absolutely necessary as a sort-of passive-aggressive retribution for Sherlock's 'absolute disregard' for his own life. And since John happened to agree with her, there was no help on that front either, at least not for a while. Until Sherlock had driven every single nurse on the floor so crazy that John decided it might be less risky for the consulting detective to go home at that point. Of course he was already planning on moving in with him, at least temporarily, to make sure his friend would be alright._

 _And so, there they were, arguing about plans, which John knew they existed, even if neither brother so much as twitched at the suggestion. Still, they weren't being as blank as they thought they were, John knew every single one of the brothers' tells, it came with having known them as long as he had. He was quite sure no one except Anthea, and maybe their parents, would be able to see through the men's facade. So John didn't say a word else, just stood there, calmly waiting for one of them to 'break'._

" _You do realize that, were such plans to exist, they would affect the woman you call your wife, Mary Morstan Watson, directly, and not in a positive manner?" Mycroft asked finally, in a most solemn tone._

" _My wife doesn't exist, she never did." John stated in the same tone. "Mary Morstan died a very long time ago. That woman, whatever her name might be, means nothing to me."_

 _And, as if to drive the point home, he pulled a flashdrive from his jeans pocket, the same one she'd offered him that night, placing it on the sitting room table._

" _I don't know what's in there." The doctor stated with a shrug. "I doubt it's much, or truly as important as she claims, but it might still be enough to give you a starting point."_

 _Mycroft reached for the flashdrive, curious._

" _John..." Sherlock murmured quietly, almost anxiously. "Are you sure this is what you want? Maybe it's too soon for you to be making this kind of decision..."_

" _I didn't make any decisions." John retorted, eerily calm. "She did, the moment she shot you in the chest, in the vena cava..."_

" _I already told you John, she did that to save me..." Sherlock began in his 'are you truly this foolish' tone._

 _From the corner of his eye, John could see Mycroft tense, his mouth twisting in what looked like the beginnings of a sneer; but he still managed to hold back for the most part. It made no difference at all in the end._

" _I know you lied." John interrupted Sherlock with a scoff. "I know all your tells Sherlock..."_

" _I don't have tells!" The consulting detective whined._

" _Yes, you do." His friend smiled softly. "And no, I'm not telling you what they are. I like knowing such things about you." He shook his head. "And even if I didn't know such things, even if you somehow did believe something that crazy... I am a doctor Sherlock. I know very well the consequences of a shot to that particular part of the chest, to the vena cava... she might not have pierced your heart, but that didn't mean she did not intend to kill you." He took a deep breath before adding. "You were dead, for all intents and purposes. Did you know that? I was there, I saw you die, for the second time. The doctors had given up on you when, by some kind of miracle, your heart began beating again. No one knows how it happened. Certainly not I. But I will never stop being grateful for such a miracle." He sighed. "So, if you're alive, it's either some great power's will, or your own, however you wish to see it. But it certainly was not, in any way, Mary's actions that allowed you to survive."_

 _He did not mention that he'd seen the coin his wife had shot, the hole in it, just half an inch or so off-center... Mary's aim wasn't perfect. It probably never had been. Which meant there was a pretty good chance that she'd been, indeed, aiming for Sherlock's heart and ended hitting the vena cava instead._

 _As it happened, there wasn't actually a plan at that moment, the brothers had still been arguing the possibility of even making such plans. Sherlock mainly had argued two topics: Mary (for John's sake) and the baby (for the same reason). John's declaration had pretty much solved the first problem; and for the second they decided to make as much time as possible. Mycroft promised John that regardless of what happened, the baby would be with him in the end._

 _The matter of Magnussen was harder for them all to agree on. Mycroft had never wanted his brother to get anywhere close to that man; but by the time he even began suspecting what was going on, it was too late. Lady Smallwood had already made her request and Sherlock was on a case. Then, of course, was the mess in his office and everything else. All three men knew that with everything that had happened Magnussen had simply become too dangerous a man to leave alone, they'd have to deal with him. Of course, by 'deal with him', they meant killing him; and while neither of them had a problem with that (John had been both a soldier and part of MI6, he understood well enough the necessity of killing to protect others); there was one lesser point he didn't agree on, though._

" _Why does it have to be him?" He asked. "Why Sherlock?"_

" _You don't think I can do it?" Sherlock challenged, eyes flashing._

" _Oh, I haven't the slightest doubt." John deadpanned, before his voice turned abruptly very soft. "Much as I may wish you never had to do it... I'm not unaware of the things you had to do while away... even if you never told me everything."_

 _The Holmeses' eyes narrowed but John refused to say anything else. It's not like he could have explained how he'd called in a favor from an old colleague in MI6 and who had agreed to give him the information he had on Sherlock's 'missions' after learning of John's connection to the consulting detective. Far as John knew, not even M was aware that such information had left their HQ. She probably wouldn't like it if she found out... Or maybe she did know and was just waiting to use the information when it was most convenient for her (it would be just like her...)._

 _Mycroft and Sherlock knew John had been Intelligence, it was one of the things he'd revealed during their first 'strategy session', though he'd lied and said there were no records as they'd been erased upon his discharge, as a final favor from his employers to him, so he could return to the army without that kind of black mark. He had been honest when explaining the context of his 'insubordination' which was the cause of his being discharged... what he'd failed to explain was that his records had been erased weeks before the mission where he failed to follow orders to save a man; and that this had been done because it was protocol for all 00 candidates... he wasn't quite sure how the Holmeses would have taken that._

" _I still don't understand why he has to be the one to pull the trigger." John added, focusing his mind once again on the present and the 'Plan'._

" _Because I can interfere if it's him." Mycroft revealed eventually. "Even if I deny it being for any familial reasons. It will be accepted, will even be expected. But there's nothing I can do if you're the one who pulls the trigger."_

 _John briefly wondered if there might be something he himself could do... perhaps M would be willing to take him in... in the end he decided it was too risky._

" _So, let me see if I understand everything." John declared, a bit tired, after the discussion was finished for the day. "Sherlock and I will go to Appledore, taking us the computer with the fake files, for appearance's sake. We will find Magnussen's vaults, recover whatever he might have on any of us, and hopefully on Mary too..."_

" _And Lady Smallwood." Sherlock added, not having forgotten his employer._

" _Yes, that too." John nodded._

" _It would be preferable if you could find a way to destroy everything, but if not... well, priorities are what they are." Mycroft stated. "That is, of course, the main plan."_

" _The only contingency being that if that fails Sherlock must shoot him." John still didn't like that part, but had given up on arguing about it._

" _Exactly." Sherlock nodded solemnly._

 _It was obvious he didn't like it either, but considered it something that needed to be done. Much like his trip around the world during those two years, hunting down the threads of Moriarty's web... it was just another mission._

" _What about Mary?" John inquired next, bracing himself for the answer._

 _What about Mary indeed? He'd been right, the flashdrive didn't have much useful. In fact, all that could be found inside were three folders: the first had everything about her identity as Mary Morstan, including the obituary and original birth certificate she'd used. The second was full of pictures, most of them of John, a few of Sherlock, and even a few of Greg and Mrs. Hudson, in different places, though two were most obvious: pictures of John and Sherlock at the pool, and pictures of John just across the street from St. Bart's... on both occasions Mary had been behind the scope of a sniper rifle, with the two of them in their cross-hairs... after she'd supposedly left that life behind. John had known he couldn't trust that she was no longer that person._

 _The third folder was empty save for one file, a note with a single phrase written: "Guess this means it's all over. Goodbye John."_

 _Neither of the three men liked the implications behind those words, especially since Sherlock and John both clearly remembered Mary stating she would do anything not to lose John... yeah, the implications of that one weren't good at all._

 _Still, even when the flashdrive turned out to be a dead-end, Mycroft and Sherlock together had more than enough resources to get the information they needed. Information John never laid eyes on, by his own choice. He believed he could keep up the act, at least until the baby was born, but he knew that whatever the brothers had found about his 'lying wife' couldn't be good, and didn't want to risk something slipping out when they fought (because he knew they would fight, no matter how much he might try to pretend to forgive her)._

" _We need to keep Mary in the dark until the baby is born." Sherlock stated. "For your daughter's sake. There's no telling what Mary might do to the baby or even herself if we corner her before that happens. Meanwhile we should see how connected she might still be to Moriarty. We need to know if we missed anyone else." His tone turned self-deprecating. "It was supposed to be over after Serbia. After I killed Moran... that was supposed to have been the end. Yet it wasn't, because she's here now, and she was there when the Fall happened, and the Pool... maybe she wasn't with Moriarty all the time, only a gun-for-hire so-to-speak, but in any case, we need to know."_

" _Has Janine given you anything else useful?" John inquired._

 _That was probably the greatest surprise of all: Janine Hawkins... Mary's maid of honor, Sherlock's fake-girlfriend and pseudo-fiancé, and also Magnussen's PA. It had all been a charade of course, though John hadn't known at the time. Apparently she had... She hadn't known why Sherlock wanted to fake being in a relationship with her, but she'd realized he was planning something and went along with it. She'd sold the (fake) story to the papers (not Magnussen's) to get some money, which allowed her to buy a cottage in Sussex. That had been part of the plan too, had helped make Sherlock's reason for being in the office more solid. It had also been simple enough for her to call it off afterwards, claiming being in a relationship with a man such as Sherlock Holmes was simply too dangerous for her._

 _That wasn't all though. Right when the Holmes brothers had believed the woman was of no more use, she revealed something they'd never expected: she was the half-sister of the late James Moriarty. She used her mother's maiden name, had her whole life, and never wanted to be connected to the psychopath. Still, that was how she'd met Mary, and also how she'd ended working with Magnussen (Moriarty apparently had had plans for the magnate). His death had made it impossible for Janine to get out later on; and when Sherlock had shown interest... she might not have known what he was planning, but she'd always hoped he would be the one to take the insane manipulator and blackmailer down once and for all, setting her free._

 _Janine had also proven helpful by pointing out some minor threads of the web the Holmeses had missed in the past. Some were minor enough as to be completely unimportant; some didn't even exist anymore, having unraveled all on their own since Moriarty's demise, however, there were a few that required their attention. Anthea had been quite busy coordinating some of their best MI5 and sometimes MI6 to take those cells out. Sometimes John and Sherlock would help too (like the time they ended running across rooftops and in a shoot-out in the outskirts of London...)._

 _John had known all along, in a corner of his mind, that things wouldn't go according to plan. Sherlock thought he was so unique (and maybe, for the most part, he was), but John hadn't been exactly surprised when Magnussen told them the truth about his 'vaults'. It seemed so obvious, in hindsight. He had perfect memory, like Sherlock; he already owned the media, so it wasn't like he needed to convince anyone to publish a story without physical proof, and since most people were too afraid to stand up to him that wasn't even necessary most of the time. No one had dared stand up to him until Lady Smallwood, and that one hadn't ended well (Lord Smallwood committed suicide before Sherlock and John could finish the case)._

 _So Sherlock shot Magnussen, was arrested and sent to Belmarsh in secret, while plans were being made. Mycroft hadn't actually explained what he was planning to do, in order to get his brother out of prison, but John trusted that he would succeed and didn't insist. Still, he wasn't actually expecting that video of Moriarty being aired everywhere..._

 _It was a good plan though, it had allowed Sherlock to stay in London, to get a pardon (after they caught some of the remaining threads of Moriarty's web, making it seem like they were the ones responsible for the video, attempting to cause chaos and such); and it also allowed them to get Mary into a secure location until she was ready to give birth._

 _John was keeping watch, of course, he knew Mary would lose patience sooner or later, and they needed to be ready. No way was he going to allow her to use th... his daughter as a bargaining chip, or worse. And then the day came..._

 **xXx**

John woke to find himself tied to a chair. It was made of metal, which meant it wouldn't break with a good move, like a wooden one would; at least it wasn't bolted to the ground. His feet were tied separately to each of the front legs; however, his arms weren't actually tied to the chair, but to each-other around the back of the chair itself; it meant his shoulder was in pain from the position but it would still make his getting free easier when the time came. He also wasn't wearing any blindfold or gag; which probably meant they didn't care what he saw (probably were planning on killing him before the end) and they wanted him to talk... good luck managing that. John hadn't made it to 00 candidate by 'looking pretty' (Alec used to say that's how James managed, despite his rather unorthodox methods, several instances of blatant insubordination and downright insanity; though, of course, James was still an Agent, the kind who wasn't afraid to get his hands dirty to get the job done). Even if he didn't know everything there was to know about AGRA, he was confident he could handle the situation, at least until the backup arrived.

Backup... because they had a plan for dealing with Mary... AGRA. They'd always had a plan. The bottom line was getting the woman in one of Mycroft's secret prisons, preferably without any official authorities finding out; there was no doubt she would have a lot of information, and the eldest Homes was confident the people in his employ could get it. John knew exactly what that meant and his total lack of reaction to it all proved, more than anything else, that he no longer cared about the woman he'd once called his wife.

However, for that to be possible, first they had to be sure no innocents would be at risk, meaning the baby. So they'd kept the charade of James Moriarty possibly being alive, to convince AGRA to stay in the safe house. They'd been hoping to be able to buy time until she gave birth, then the gloves came off. Though, course, they always knew contingencies might be necessary. Even with Janine's help there had been the chance that Mary might know other people, former minions of Moriarty, who could end up posing a problem. So she'd been under close watch.

John had been tasked with keeping a close eye on her and be call in the task force if it seemed like she might bolt. He created a mental checklist of things to look out for, which probably only he would notice. Instances where she would be saying too much, and might make her react.

It wasn't good when the first two checks happened the very first day, even when they were still on that private airstrip. Mary's interest in Moriarty, along with her anxiety, she hadn't even realized how much she gave away in that moment. Thankfully it'd stopped there. Another had been marked when the people keeping watch reported on the woman leaving the house using what she thought was a secret and forgotten exit on the back of the cellar, through another house. However, as she'd always returned, John had chosen to play ignorant of her moves. And then came Mary mentioning the mission to Eastern Europe, the suicide-mission... John had never mentioned it was so, no one had in front of her. Even the doctor himself had never been told (but he was/had been Intelligence, he knew a suicide-mission when he saw/heard one).

Once the last check-mark was mentally placed, John had quickly sent a message. It probably wasn't the one they were expecting on the other side. The original plan was for John to call in the team and then make time until they arrived, keep Mary distracted... in the last moment he'd decided that wasn't going to work. So he'd gone with one of the contingencies... Sherlock had probably cursed the moment he found out. He hadn't actually planned on getting knocked out so viciously, but he was nothing if not adaptable, he could handle himself; and the dog-tag he was wearing, with a military-grade tracker, assured him the others would have no problem tracking him to wherever he might be. All he had to do was make sure to get out of the way, because the guys would probably be coming in hot...

"I know you're awake." Mary's statement pulled John from his line of thought. "There's no point for you to pretend otherwise."

"No pretending." He stated, opening his eyes and twisting his head this way and that to try and get rid of crick in his neck (there was nothing he could do about the killer headache). "I just have no interest in talking to you right now."

One of the good things of what was going on was probably that he no longer had to pretend. To pretend having forgiven her for shooting his friend, to pretend he still wanted to be married to her, still loved her... He was finally free from all that.

"I'm curious." She admitted, taking a seat in front of him. "What gave me away?"

"You're too interested in Moriarty for someone who never knew him." He deadpanned.

"Really?" She arched a brow elegantly. "And it took you this long to realize that?"

"Who says I only realized that today?" He retorted with a half smirk. "It's just that today I decided I was tired of pretending kissing you didn't make me sick."

Apparently that was a bit too much, Mary slapped him hard enough to make his face turn to the side, red hand-print on his cheek... also, his head pounded.

"Then again, we knew already that you most definitely did know him." John continued. "I am curious. Did you marry me so you could look at the handiwork of the bastard every day, or are you really that much of a sadist?"

"I did love you John, I still love you." Mary insisted, very intense. "Didn't you understand when I told Sherlock I would do anything to keep you?"

"That's not love, that's obsession." John qualified with a slight shake of his head. "I'm not sure if you're capable of actual love, if you even know what it feels like."

Another slap, even harder than the first.

"You mean like the love you feel for that crazy bastard Sherlock Holmes?!" She demanded.

John didn't actually answer her, instead testing his lower lip with his tongue, the second slap had split it, and it was bleeding.

"You didn't deny it this time." She observed, curious.

"I've actually never denied it." He pointed out quiet calmly. "I just denied cheating on you with him, or on anyone with another, really. I'm not the kind of man who does that."

"Aren't you? Tell me John, what would you have done, in this perfect dream-world you once envisioned, where I'm not an assassin. If Sherlock had returned, and you had no reason for hating me, what would you have done? You cannot tell me you wouldn't have felt tempted eventually."

"I'm not the kind of man who goes back on his vows."

"But that's exactly what you're doing!"

"No, it isn't. I promised a woman called Mary Morstan that I would love her till the day I died... but, as it turns out, she's already dead. I'm not forsaking any vows..."

"That's a convenient way of seeing things."

"Like thinking I should forgive you for shooting my best friend, simply because he didn't die?"

"Didn't you hear, I saved his life!" She scoffed.

"I knew that was a lie from the very start." He revealed. "Though some of you might believe me an idiot, I am no such thing. I'm a doctor for Pete's sake! I wonder, did you actually aim for the vena cava to kill him in the most painful way you could think of, or was it just that you're so bad a shot that even at less than ten feet away you couldn't hit the heart?"

His voice was coming out in a drawl, hard as it was for him to say those words. In the end he achieved what he intended, as AGRA let out a screech before stalking out of the room, furious. It was exactly what John had been aiming for.

The moment he was alone, John got to work. It took some careful balancing, pushing the chair back just enough to allow him to pull his feet free of its legs. However, once that was done it was rather easy to get the ropes off his ankles. Then he stood and with even more careful balancing moved away from the chair. He was forced to lay down on the ground as he worked on getting his arms under his legs and to the front of his body, where he could get to work on the rope binding his wrists. All the while mentally wishing for the days where escaping bondage was so easy he could have done it in his sleep... not that he was bad at it in that moment per say.

The first thing he did when on his feet was to make sure his dogtag was still secure inside his shoe. It was something he'd learned from an American soldier, special forces. He'd told him that they put their dogtags inside their boots, in case they were blown up or something, at least a part of them would still be identified. John knew that was also why some units in black ops and other special missions would tattoo themselves either on the torso or one arm, with their number and sometimes surname. It was a grim thought but still a sure way to make sure the dogtag wouldn't be taken from him (they'd certainly taken his keys, the switch blade he carried in his pocket for emergencies, and the gun he kept in the back of his waistline. So he was unarmed for the most part, still he wasn't worried, not yet.

After learning all he could of the room he was in (big, the whole floor probably), John decided it might be better if AGRA and whoever was with her didn't realize he was free. So very carefully he went back to sitting in his chair (moved a bit from its original position to make it seem like he'd tried to free himself and failed), arranged the ropes on his ankles so it looked like he was still tied, then very carefully did the same to his wrists on his back. He knew the charade wouldn't last a careful inspection, but all he needed to do was buy some time. They would find him.

He was back in position just in time, as less than two minutes later the door to the cellar/basement/whatever was opening once again, AGRA was back.

Nothing was said for what seemed like forever; but in the end she was the one who cracked, as she sat back down on a chair (and John could see the pregnancy was probably making things hard on her), facing him.

"I did know love like that, once." She said, and she sounded serious. "Seb he... he was the love of my life. Met him while on the run. He was the one who convinced me I could have a new life. Then he got involved with Moriarty. I knew it was a bad idea, but he was convinced it would give us the money we needed to have not only a new life, but a great one. I knew it was a bad idea to get involved with someone as absolutely bonkers as that bastard, but Seb insisted, so I went with him. That day at the Pool... I thought that would be it... but Seb kept taking jobs for him. Even convinced me to join a second time..." She made a pause before adding. "I have to admit I only said yes because I was curious, could a man who was so obviously a sociopath, who probably didn't even know what love was, could he really kill himself for the sake of others? Surprisingly enough, he did." She snorted. "And then the bastard Moriarty completely lost the plot and offed himself too. Seb decided it was a good opportunity to take over at least a part of the operation, just enough to get money and power for the two of us. So he went to Serbia, and I stayed here, keeping an eye on you, to make sure everything was alright... and it was. Just perfect. Until your dear Sherlock Holmes went and murdered my Seb!"

John blinked a few times as he tried to process everything. He couldn't help but wonder when exactly the woman had gone so completely off her trolley; or if she'd been like that all along and he'd been just too blind to see it. Her story sounded pretty and all, and some might even take pity on her after hearing it; but at least to John it sounded like a load of bullshit! Really, the woman had lost the love of her life, and two days later had gotten engaged to him? And not only that, she'd already been sleeping and living with him by that point, had been for months!

AGRA (whatever those initials might mean)... John had long since realized she was completely obsessed with him. And maybe she'd been obsessed with Seb, whoever the man might have been too... in any case, his death at Sherlock's hands... if it had really happened like that, was probably a good excuse for her to justify her actions, at least to herself. It didn't change anything for John himself. Nothing could ever make things right again, not after she'd shot Sherlock.

"How did you know about me and Moriarty?" She asked him suddenly. "You said you hadn't read what was in the flashdrive..."

And he was a really bad liar, she would have noticed if he had, he knew that. Which had been pretty much the point.

"I didn't." John shrugged with his good shoulder. "Doesn't mean I didn't give it to others to do exactly that. And even if I hadn't, Mycroft and Sherlock have enough resources to find out the truth about you, no matter how hard you might have tried to hide it."

"I see..." She murmured, before shrugging it off. "Doesn't matter anymore, anyway. What's done is done. By tomorrow this will all be over. Mary Morstan Watson will be gone and John Watson... Mmm... Wonder what Sherlock will think when he finds your body on the side of the Thames, like so many others. Will he try to solve your murder like any other case?" She sounded almost gleeful as she said that, and completely barmy. "It has a certain symmetry, don't you think?"

John didn't get to give an answer, before he could think of a suitable (scathing) response, there was a very loud detonation somewhere, not-too-far-away, and they could both feel the room shake. The cavalry had arrived.

"Well, well, well..." AGRA drawled. "It would seem like our dear consulting detective is in top form today! Too bad he will still be too late." Her voice turned hard and cold. "Wonder what he'll think when he finds your body, broken, dying..."

John didn't need to ask what she meant, it was quite clear as he saw the thugs enter behind her.

There had been moments in John's life, when everything seemed to become sharper, like reality gained a new level, or he just became aware of it. It wasn't like some portrayed it in the movies, time didn't seem to stop; no, it was more like all his senses became extra sensitive, adrenaline pumping through his body, making his reflexes sharper, his body faster. It'd happened a number of times during his time in the military, particularly during that mission-turned-ambush (it was probably the only reason he'd survived) and during his five years with MI6; it'd even happened a few times since he'd begun working with Sherlock, like in that Pool, or at Appledore. It wasn't always enough for him to manage something, to make a difference, but still, he tried.

So John stood still, tense, ready; and the moment the thugs got close enough, he went into action. The former captain snapped both legs up, catching one man in the chin hard enough to knock him out, the other managed to block the hit, but still ended with a serious bruise. And there were two more still.

Not stopping even for an instant john stood from the chair and spun around; taking hold of the chair with some difficulty and twisting it around with enough force that the man he hit with it went down, completely out cold (two down, and two left).

He was about to throw himself at the man he'd managed to hit slightly before, when the low but quite distinctive click of a gun cocking caught his attention. The former soldier's reaction was automatic as he threw himself to the ground, going into a roll, managing to evade two shots and a punch. He knew he needed to get out of the line of fire, and did so by half-running, half crawling to the many crates piled up and using almost half of the basement.

"What do you think you're doing standing there?!" Mary practically shrieked, hysterical. "Get the bastard! Kill him!"

It became almost like a very strange, very deadly game of cat-and-mouse, or maybe tag... John kept himself concealed behind a bunch of crates, the rope that had at one point tied his wrists his only weapon. And he used it quite effectively the moment one of the men got close enough, strangling him with it. He wasn't fully sure if the man was breathing still when it was over; and he didn't have time to check, not with the last remaining thug looking for him.

It came to a fight, hand to hand, in the end. The thug tried to shoot him (with John's own gun, as it turned out). But John managed to kick it out of his hand and several feet away quiet effectively. The other man (Scottish, by his accent) still had a serrated knife; but it was much easier for John to defend himself from that.

The scuffle seemed to last forever, though John was quite sure it couldn't have been more than two or three minutes. The thug was half restraining him, with the doctor still fighting like crazy to get free, mind working very fast trying to come up with a strategy, when, from the corner of his eye, he caught the glint of the knife as it went in his direction.

John's reaction was completely instinctive. He was laying down, his back against the thug's chest, one of his arms and most of his torso being restrained by him. When he saw the knife coming he was moving before he was even fully conscious of it and, in a move he hadn't even attempted since his last training session with Alec (over a decade before), he raised his legs and hips sharply, throwing himself into a backwards roll.

The two of them became then a mess of limbs for a handful of very precious seconds, until a pained grunt, what sounded like a half-gasp, half-gurgle and then... nothing.

John moved again, managing to push away the arm that had been restraining him. He twisted until he was able to crouch, only to find his attacker laying on the ground, dead, a bloody knife by his side, a stab wound high on his flank. Apparently at some point during his scuffle he'd ended stabbing himself instead of John, and then he'd made a classic beginner's mistake (or at least the kind of mistake anyone not a doctor would make), he'd pulled the blade out. As it happened, the knife had been blocking the incision it'd caused before; so when it was taken away, nothing could stop the man from bleeding out in a matter of seconds. John probably would have taken a moment to recover, and to think about the stupid loss of life, if his attention hadn't been so completely grabbed in an instant, with a single word:

"John!"

It was Sherlock, Sherlock was there, had found him...

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes..." A second voice practically purred.

Right, because Mary was still in the basement, and she was completely off her rocker. John was on his feet and moving before he fully realized it. He needed to intervene before something happened, before someone died...

 **xXx**

Sherlock was in a state, had been ever since the message had come into Mycroft's phone, the code they'd agreed on for one of their 'contingencies'. The one he liked the least, in fact. And for some reason, the one he always suspected would be happening (very much like when Lazarus went down, if he was honest with himself).

Sherlock knew the kind of man John was, his protective instincts. He'd saved the consulting detective more than once. And of course the baby would be the focus of them, not only because she was an innocent, but because she was John's daughter. That fact was enough for Sherlock to want to protect her too. The whole plan that had been made regarding Mary (or Alicia Gisele Reyna Addams, as he knew her true name to be) existed in order to keep the baby safe. The safe house was meant to be a way to keep Mary in their territory and under close surveillance until the right time came. She'd only be taken into actual custody if John decided she was onto them, or was about to take off for whatever the reason.

Oh, they knew she'd been leaving, for short periods of time. It hadn't seemed as that much of a problem, because she always returned. Somehow John had turned out to be a good enough actor that she still believed he'd forgiven her, that he would stay with her... Sherlock snorted mentally at the idea. The not-so-former assassin didn't realize, one would believe she didn't really know the man she married at all!

Plan Rhode was the last contingency to be decided on. He and John had spent months tracking every remaining piece of Moriarty's web that Janine helped them locate in London (with MI5 and MI6 helping deal with those in the rest of the country and foreign territories). But the fact that Mary kept her trips elsewhere seemed to imply she had other contacts. Plan Rhode was meant to allow them to find those contacts.

Sherlock had once asked John, while they were watching one of those action movies the doctor so liked, while the detective couldn't help but find them dull. The younger man had asked his flatmate how he would get into an enemy territory or base. The question hadn't been that important at the time, though Sherlock still filed away the answer, as he did with everything John had ever done or said, telling himself it might be useful someday. It'd actually helped more than once during his two-year absence... though he never imagined John putting it in practice. The answer had been: 'You surrender'. The easiest variant being to allow yourself to be taken prisoner, hostage or whatever; which was exactly the point in that moment. John had sent a message to an encrypted number warning them of what was happening; so they would know to keep track of his GPS, as he was about to be taken.

The only reason any of that was needed was because wherever Mary kept going, it was outside the range of the CCTV. Meaning they'd needed another method of finding it, of finding those that might be working with/for her. And John had agreed... even knowing the very real danger to his person, his life, he'd agreed.

Earlier that night, as the people on watch-duty confirmed that Mary had left the safe-house with two thugs carrying an unconscious John, Sherlock had felt fear, near-paralyzing terror like never before. It was in that moment that he began to understand what John might have been feeling that day, outside Bart's, when seeing Sherlock on the rooftop... John had forgiven him for that, of course he had. It hadn't been easy but they'd managed to move forward, something the consulting detective would always be thankful for... but Sherlock hadn't understood! Not until that moment. All he could think was that if that had been just the start for his friend, he probably owed John many, many more apologies.

Thankfully the plan had been well thought out, Mycroft had the best of his people working on it, with Anna (his dearest sister-in-law) in charge of everything. Before the hour was past he was on a car with her, followed by several other vehicles filled with a full tactical team, the very best.

It took them hours to get to the place the GPS signaled, just outside London. The area had held many warehouses at one time; then a decade or so earlier most of them had been converted into flats by some new construction agency, who intended on doing great business. It hadn't worked out. In the end they had sold half of the flats at well below the prices they'd originally intended, leaving the rest empty before having to declare bankruptcy. A few of the buildings had never been fully fitted, in fact. And it was to one of them that the GPS had taken them... or more precisely what would probably pass for half a block.

On the outside it looked like the front of what would have probably eventually become half a dozen flats or so; however, construction had never truly begun on the inside, which meant that the areas were still fully open. Each floor; and they had no way of knowing just in which one John might be exactly.

Protocol indicated that the team would rush to the top floor and begin a methodical search, floor by floor, until they reached ground level again. Sherlock decided there was no time for such things; it was likely that someone would become aware of their presence soon enough, and then the danger to John's life would be much higher.

So Sherlock decided that if some things were going to happen anyway, they would do so in his terms. He stalked across the ground-level, until he found what he was looking for. A couple of thugs standing near the back of the building, smoking. He pulled a small petard out of the pocket of his coat, lighting it with a match he was carrying too (he'd pocketed them, along with a couple of cigarettes earlier, only managing to keep himself from actually smoking in the last moment, choosing instead to use the last two nicotine patches). He threw the small explosive far enough away as to not give his actual position away.

The detonation was actually louder than he was expecting; though it still didn't damage anything. The effect was also the one he'd expected, as the two men hurriedly threw their cigarettes away and ran into the building, to their boss... Sherlock followed them stealthily.

It wasn't easy, half of the floor was almost like a labyrinth, with so many heavy crates, pieces of lumber and at times even bricks and other assorted debris that Sherlock was forced to either turn or even go back over his footsteps. He'd been unable to follow the men too closely, not wanting to risk them knowing he was there just yet; and eventually had lost them. Though at least he'd a general idea of the direction they were going, which was better than nothing.

Unsurprisingly (it was so obvious on hindsight) he ended eventually at the entrance to what was probably a basement. Which the team still combing through the floors didn't even know existed. Because it apparently didn't appear in any blueprints; also the entrance wasn't a traditional door, but a trapdoor, so cleverly concealed into the cement ground that if it weren't for the fact that the thugs were in such a hurry they forgot to close it after them, Sherlock might not have noticed it (or at least not right away, he'd have deduced it was there, eventually).

It took little time for Sherlock to climb down the ladder and into the basement level. It was even more cluttered than the ground floor. Still, he cared little about that, only one thing, one person mattered to him in that moment:

"John!" He called, as loudly as he could.

And yet, he wasn't the one who answered...

"Hello, Sherlock Holmes..." A female voice practically purred from a side.

Sherlock reacted instinctively, spinning to the side at the same time he gave a step backwards in an attempt to put some distance between him and the insane not-so-former assassin, even as he pulled out the gun Anna had insisted he held onto, just in case. And yet, even as he pointed it straight at the blonde woman's head, finger on the trigger, he couldn't even think about firing.

Because the woman might be beyond barmy, and he might honestly hate her, but she was pregnant with the daughter of his best-friend, his partner his... John. And Sherlock would never do anything that might hurt John, not after the last time...

"Why don't you put that little toy down and kick it to me?" She said, voice half-teasing, half-threatening, even as she held her own gun at him.

Sherlock did, confident it wouldn't change much (he wouldn't have shot her anyway, she couldn't actually bend down to pick it up, and she was already armed anyway).

"You know," She said, almost conversationally. "John isn't sure if I was just being vicious when I shot you, or if I'm just not that good a shot..."

The consulting detective couldn't help himself, the answer was so obvious...

"How about we find out?" Marry suggested, with a crazy grin. "Though I can assure you, my dear consulting detective, you won't be surviving this time..." She actually chuckled. "My original plan was to kill John and leave his body for you to find... but I suppose this will work quite nicely too. I did tell you I would do anything to stop John from leaving me..."

"Killing me won't make him change his mind." Sherlock pointed out quietly, oddly calm despite the very real threat to his life.

"No, I know that." She hissed. "But it will teach John, and everyone else, that no one leaves me."

She was truly beyond insane already; Sherlock wondered if he was really so blind he hadn't seen it. Maybe he'd just been in shock after Serbia still, or the lack of the reunion he'd been wishing (hoping, dreaming of) with John; or maybe he just hadn't wanted to do something that might make John even angrier (he really hadn't liked it whenever he would deduce his girlfriends, and while Sherlock usually didn't care for annoying him a bit, a lot had changed since the Fall).

"There's a team of special forces outside." Sherlock pointed out. "Even if you did kill me, you won't be getting out of here."

"Do you really think they would shoot a pregnant woman?" She challenged, probably trying to sound innocent and vulnerable, but the insanity slipped through.

"Unlike John or myself, they won't care." He assured her. "You, and that baby, mean nothing to them, nothing at all. You are their mark, and it's that simple."

"Well, you're mine, and it really is that simple." She retorted, raising her gun from his chest to his head. "Who knows? Maybe we'll meet again, in hell..."

Her finger was just beginning to tighten on the trigger when, suddenly, a shot rang clearly across the room. Sherlock froze, his genius mind processing in less than a handful of seconds the fact that he was still very much alive; and it wasn't that Alicia was that bad a shot, she just had never gotten the chance. Sherlock caught sight of a growing spot of red in the middle of her chest, instants before she was falling... dead.

Even before looking over his shoulder the consulting detective knew already who'd fired that bullet, there was simply no one else.

"John..." He murmured, around the same time the doctor went to stand by him. "You killed her."

"She was going to kill you." John murmured in reply.

And it really was that simple. Sherlock might have been willing to risk his life, but John wasn't about to lose him again; the doctor's mind was made up the moment AGRA dared point her gun at Sherlock for the second (or was it third?) time.

For a second, nothing was said or done, and then.

"Minna!" John cried out abruptly. "Sherlock I need you to help me."

He was rushing the dead assassin immediately. Thankfully she'd fallen on her back, which meant the baby was probably alright, though not for long.

"We have five minutes before the lack of oxygen and blood flow will kill the baby." John stated, more than anxious. "And I have nothing on me!"

"Maybe this could be useful?" A voice called.

John raised his head to find a military-grade first aid kit being held in front of him, by none other than Mycroft's PA, the man he still only knew as Anthea (though Sherlock knew she wasn't only his brother's PA, she was also his wife, a former MI5... and her real name was Anna, Anna Isabel Kemp-Holmes).

"Right." John nodded. "You have any medical training?"

"Only the basics." She answered promptly. "It was offered at one time during my previous employment and I thought it might improve my chances to survive." It had.

"I'll need both of your help." He stated seriously. "I'll need you to do exactly what I tell you."

It wasn't an easy job, and quite gross too. So much blood ended on all of them. Perhaps the only saving grace was that, with the mother already dead, John only needed to be careful not to hurt the baby. It was also fortunate that Anthea/Anna had had a functioning phone on her, which she used briefly to demand clean water from one of the people who'd arrived with her, so they had something to wash the baby with. Nothing could be done about towels, though. John would have used his jumper but it was pretty dirty after the scuffle with the last thug, there was even blood on it. In the end Sherlock took off his Belstaff coat, folding it carefully and wrapping the baby-girl in it. John couldn't quite believe it, his friend loved that coat, and it wasn't cheap. Sherlock really did not care. He liked the coat, true, but in the end it was just a piece of cloth, nowhere as important as John's daughter (and he could always buy another coat).

Lestrade and Donovan were outside the building, with their own team, ready to take over the investigation; and witnessed the moment Sherlock Holmes walked out of the room, keeping quite close to John Watson, who was holding a newborn baby, wrapped in the dark wool coat. Anna was behind them, giving orders to the agents that had arrived with her and Sherlock.

"Is that a baby...?" Donovan was absolutely shocked. "But... where's Mary...? Just what the hell happened here tonight?!"

John and Sherlock both ignored her, going straight for the ambulance that had just arrived.

Lestrade let out a breath. He knew how delicate the whole situation had been; and yet both John and Sherlock considered him enough of a friend that he'd been told enough of the truth. Only repeated assurances that Alicia Addams would face justice in due time had stopped him from arresting her immediately after learning she was the one responsible for shooting Sherlock. He'd also suspected from the start that she wouldn't live long once John's baby was safe... he'd thought it would be Mycroft settling things (so-to-speak), though he had a very good idea of who had done it, and why. Most of the people at the Yard had joked about Sherlock and John screwing each other; but Greg had known that with or without sex, there was a connection between the two men, deeper than many marriages he'd seen (stronger than his certainly), it was just a matter of time before the two oblivious bastards (yes, even Sherlock, for all he was a genius in scientific matters, he knew little of sentiment) got on with the program. And apparently it'd finally happened, or if not, it would, very soon... Greg could say he was honestly happy for them. Still, there was no time to focus in his friends' romantic lives (or absence thereof), there was a case to work on (he couldn't help but wonder if it would stay in his hands, or if Mycroft Holmes would be interfering... it's not like it would be the first time).

 **xXx**

 _It was the beginning of the month and the year, John and Sherlock were standing in the hall leading to the door of 221B panting and laughing at the same time (which certainly wasn't easy). They'd just returned after a chase across half of London, pursuing a boy who'd ran errands for some of Moriarty's lesser associates; Janine had pointed them in his direction, and the Homeless Network had helped them find him, as he was a risk to all of them (apparently several of the homeless who'd done odd jobs for him and his 'employer' had gone suspiciously missing). It had taken them most of the day, and half the night, but eventually they'd managed to catch up with the man, and after he was secure in the back of a nondescript car with Anthea Sherlock proposed they make use of their leftover adrenaline and run back to Baker Street. After having to stay close to Mary for days to make sure she was properly installed in Mycroft's safe house John wanted nothing more than to get away for a while._

 _Their heartbeats were just beginning to slow down when the two men turned to look straight at each other... it was as if the air had completely left the room in an instant. The two stared at each other for what seemed like forever, not quite realized how close they were getting, until their breath mingled... there was just the slightest brush of lips and then... John pulled away._

" _No..." John gasped, almost pained even as he said it._

" _Of course, of course." Sherlock attempted a scoff as he turned for the stairs. "What was I thinking. Not-gay, right?"_

" _Not... Sherlock?!" John called, going after him. "What does that have to do with anything?"_

" _Of course you wouldn't want to kiss me, who would want to?" There was so much self-loathing in his tone, it was heart-breaking. "And anyway, you're not gay!"_

" _No, I'm not." John shrugged, holding himself back from reaching for Sherlock, not sure if he would want it, or what he himself might do afterwards. "Doesn't mean I'm straight, though."_

 _Sherlock spun around sharply at that, looking at John with honest, undisguised shock, his mouth shaped a question, a 'why', but his voice wouldn't come._

" _I'm not gay, I'm bisexual." John clarified. "Or well, I think so. Not like I'm ever been truly attracted to a man other than you... much less been in love but..."_

 _That seemed to be enough for the consulting detective, who practically threw himself at the doctor, intent on kissing him for everything he was worth... only to have his friend stop him._

" _Wha... John..." Sherlock practically whimpered at the refusal, not understanding._

" _Don't take this the wrong way." John murmured, caressing Sherlock's cheek with great care. "It's not that I don't want to kiss you, because I want to... so much... but I won't do this to you Sherlock. I am still married to Mary, or whatever her name might be, as much as I might hate it. And I will not make you my lover, my affair... a dirty secret." She shook his head emphatically. "When I kiss you, and more importantly, when I take you to bed, it will be because I'm a free man, because we're both free. And I will kiss you, and make love to you, and make sure the whole world knows that you're mine. That I'm the luckiest bastard to have the love of the most beautiful and amazing man in the world..." He made a pause to take a deep, ragged breath before adding: "You and Mycroft might have plans regarding Magnussen and Mary and the last remains of Moriarty's web... but this is My Plan. You, are my plan Sherlock, alright?"_

 _Sherlock moaned, low and deep in the back of his throat, but managed to hold himself back, just nodding sharply once. He liked that plan._

" _Soon." John assured him, placing a kiss in the inside of the taller man's wrist._

" _Soon..." Sherlock agreed, nearly breathless._

 **xXx**

The doctors insisted on keeping the newborn baby girl a full twenty-four hours for observation after the rather traumatic birth. Mycroft used his own influence to make sure John was allowed to stay nearby the whole time. Sherlock stayed close most of the time too, just going away for short periods of time to make phone calls he told John nothing of. At some point Anthea also delivered changes of clothes to them both, and they were allowed to use the showers near the doctors' lounge to clean up (something very necessary after the events of the night).

So, finally, early in the morning of the 2nd of February, the two men and the baby girl were on Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them, as were Molly and Greg (who would be Minna's godparents, both men had already agreed).

John got a most pleasant (and shocking) surprise when discovering that his old bedroom had been completely renovated, turning it into a nursery. Painted a pale lilac (as both John and Sherlock disliked the whole boy-blue, girl-pink stereotypes), with a sturdy wooden crib, a changing table, a rocking chair and even a daybed. There were also a few toys, mostly stuffed animals, that their friends had bought for them, a few changes of clothes and other essentials; though the object that most called John's attention was the beautiful mobile hanging above the crib, of the solar system.

"She will know everything." Sherlock explained with a light shrug. "Even things that I might have thought unimportant at one point."

"You will be a wonderful father Sherlock..." John breathed out with a bright smile.

The consulting detective froze in shock at that, something John didn't fail to notice.

"Unless... do you not want this, Sherlock?" John asked, a hint of fear in his voice.

After brunch with their friends they'd put Minna to sleep in her bassinet, Mrs. Hudson insisting that she would look after the baby for a few hours while the boys made sure everything was ready (she probably knew they still needed to work a few things out).

"Is it too much?" John insisted. "Have I pushed too hard...? Is this because I put your name in Minna's birth certificate?"

He had. And Sherlock had signed it, though John was beginning to think it might have been too soon. That they might be moving too fast, they hadn't even kissed yet! But John just hadn't wanted Mary to be connected to his daughter any more than absolutely necessary. If he was absolutely honest, the doctor hated the idea of hiding the truth about Mary, her death, and the reasons for it; hated that people kept approaching him, all full of pity and pretend understanding, offering their condolences for the loss of his wife. As far as most people were concerned, Mary Watson had died giving birth to his daughter, and that was how it was going to stay, if only so Minna wouldn't have to one day carry the weight of her birth mother's past. Still, John planned on Minna having two parents: Sherlock and himself, as well as all their extended family: beginning with Mycroft and Anna, as well as Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, Harry and maybe Clara (they were working on things, giving their marriage another try), Mrs. Hudson (as honorary grandmother, of course), and their other close friends like Molly and Greg.

The only people to know the truth would remain Mycroft, Anna, Mrs. Hudson and Greg. Though John suspected Sally knew something, as she hadn't said a word about Mary's bloodied body in that basement, or even when she'd seen Sherlock holding Minna at one time. They'd never told her anything but maybe...

"Are you sure it's a good idea John?" Sherlock asked after what seemed like forever. "Giving me that kind of power over your daughter...?"

"Our daughter." John corrected, before revising. "If you want her, want us, that is."

"If I..." Sherlock scoffed, though it sounded somewhat watery. "Of course I want her! Want you both! You're all I ever wanted... granted I didn't know I wanted her until after she already existed; but then again I didn't know I could ever want you, or anyone at all until I'd met you so..." He cut himself off abruptly. "I just don't know what I ever did to deserve you John. It's one thing to call me your best friend, your best man... but this?"

"You came back to me, that's all I ever needed you to do, Sherlock." John assured him. "I'm sorry about Mary, about all the ways she made things wrong, how close she came to ruining this... our chances, forever..."

"At least one good thing came from that."

"Yeah, Minna is definitely a good thing."

"Minna Joan." Sherlock clarified with evident delight.

Because, of course, after learning just what AGRA truly meant, and the significance behind the middle-name of Alice, John had refused to keep that name for the baby and in a moment of craziness/inspiration, insisted that Sherlock choose a new middle-name. He'd chosen Joan, because it was only right, according to him. It made it all almost funny when one considered where the name Minna came from (Minna, diminutive/variant of Wilhelmina, which is the feminine form of William...).

"Minna Joan Holmes-Watson." John stated with evident satisfaction. "Our daughter."

"Ours." Sherlock agreed, almost tenderly, before his expression turned almost wicked. "Now, I believe we have one final part of a certain plan to put into action, don't we?"

"Oh yes..." John practically groaned.

In a swift move he'd practically slammed Sherlock against the wall, attacking his mouth with a passion and intensity that made the taller man weak in the knees. It was only made worse when the former soldier practically scooped him up, the detective's legs swiftly twisting around solid hips, as they half walked, half-tripped into what was officially their bedroom, doing some serious acrobatics to disrobe themselves while trying their best not to stop kissing for more than a few seconds when absolutely necessary.

A single phrase could be heard, aside from the deep gasps and breathy moans (which sometimes seemed to include mangled versions of the two men's names), three words:

"I love you..."

 **xXx**

Martha Hudson couldn't help but smile to herself, right before taking a sip of her tea. She was sitting on her favorite rocking chair, a tray with a plate of scones, the base for her tea-cup and the empty baby bottle she'd given the baby just before preparing herself some tea.

The banging and low noises had stopped coming from upstairs a while earlier, but she'd decided her boys must be exhausted, and it wasn't like she couldn't look after the little one for a little longer yet, it wasn't every day that her boys, the two who were as good as her sons, got together, after all (and it had taken them so long! There had been moments when Martha had honestly feared the day might never come).

The landlady (not the housekeeper... though she probably wouldn't mind being Minna's nanny more often than not) was just finishing her cuppa when she noticed, from the corner of her eye, that the baby's big blue eyes were wide open in that moment.

"Hey... little one..." She cooed with a soft smile and a hint of melancholy.

If there was one thing Martha Hudson honestly regretted, it was never having had any children. Granted, it probably wouldn't have been the best idea, what with her husband owning a cartel (not to mention the domestic violence) and then there had been her own exotic dancing. Anyone could have hurt the child or children in order to try and get to either of them (though especially her husband, she'd never been as well known). Still, she had to admit a part of her had missed never having that chance.

Maybe that was why she'd taken to Sherlock like she did. It's not like she thought any child of hers would have ever been like him. She wasn't stupid by any measure, of course not, but she was certainly no genius, and Mr. Hudson had certainly been far from that. But still, there had been something about Sherlock, from the very start, that pulled at Martha's mothering instincts. She knew the man had a mother, and a good one too, but maybe she just wasn't enough, or he was the one who wasn't letting her. Martha couldn't help but want to try, want to do anything and everything she possibly could to help the clever and odd young man that had become her tenant. The same who had saved her in every way anyone could have ever saved her...

So Sherlock had become her boy, and she loved him like a son and, best of all, he'd never tried to change that. Making allowances for her like he did for nobody else.

And then John Watson had arrived.

If Martha were to be completely honest with herself she'd only asked about them needing two bedrooms to see how they would react. She wasn't really expecting them to move in together. Her Sherlock was such a special boy, and so hard to live with... and then a case came and went, and John was still there. Through crazy cases and sleepless nights, and hours filled with violin screeches and all the other forms of Sherlock's tantrums. John had stayed, and it was then that Martha knew there was a special connection between those two.

It had taken them five years and too many tears and troubles, but in the end her boys had seen the bond that existed between them, and they were finally together. And the best part, a little girl had joined their growing family too! Martha had never been happier in her whole life.

 **xXx**

The years passed, and Minna Joan Holmes-Watson grew up to be a very beautiful, clever and kind woman. Her eyes were blue (the same shade of blue that hid behind the more prominent brown in her dad's own), her hair looked somewhere between a chocolate brown and a dark mahogany (which, her uncle Mycroft stated, made her look quite like a Holmes). All she knew about her birth mother was that she'd been her dad's wife and had died the same day she was born in tragic circumstances; Minna honestly never felt she needed her, or anyone else, she had her dad, her papa, uncle Myc, auntie Anna, and even more uncles, aunts and grandparents!

There was never any great wedding for John and Sherlock. After trying three times, only to find themselves interrupted time and again by cases, criminals with a grudge and whatever else, the two ended marrying in a civil ceremony in Mycroft's townhouse. It's not like it changed anything between the two, the connection and the devotion had already been there, practically since their first case together (though, if asked, both would have denied it at the time).

The two consulting detectives (they'd eventually become full time partners when John finally gave up on locum work at the clinic to help his husband with the Work full time) continued with the Work for many years, until John 's body became too stiff to allow him to follow Sherlock everywhere, and Sherlock decided his eyesight could no longer be trusted enough. Then they moved to a cottage in Sussex (left to them by Janine in her will, when she died of cancer years earlier); where John took the time to fully write all their adventures in a series of books that would become bestsellers, while Sherlock worked on his new passion: beekeeping. Minna then stepped up, becoming the new consulting detective in London; she might not have been a genius like her papa, but she was clever and curious enough, and certainly had her papa's wish for adventure (she also eventually found her own partner, in Work and Life). It was all fine.

Truth was Sherlock and John Holmes-Watson would never be forgotten, no matter how many years passed. Not only because their daughter carried on with their legacy, as well (directly or indirectly) as all the people they'd helped, either through their work or in various personal ways, but because theirs was the kind of story, of romance, that would still be whispered about, decades and centuries later, even when most of it had been reduced to nothing more than legend. No one could ever doubt their love had been real... and always would be.

* * *

And cut! It took me a long time to decide how to close this piece, and in the end I did the whole epilogue-thing, and it felt right, hope you liked it. Please don't forget to comment! I live for your feedback!

The Rohde contingency is named thus in honor of David Rohde, a journalist who was taken hostage in the Middle-East, years ago and who ended escaping himself (there was a lot more happening, if you're interested, you can research him). The point of using his name was to represent a contingency where John would be a prisoner but he still wasn't depending on others to be free again.

In my country it is legal for same-sex couples to appear (both parents) in their child's birth-certificate (even if that means not including the name of the birth-mother -most of the time a surrogate-), I suppose it's the same in the UK, though, to be honest, that part I didn't actually research... If it's not yet legal but it down to Mycroft and his 'minor position'.

Regarding future projects: To those who follow my Nightingale series, next week I'm posting the start of the next AU, it's a crossover with Sherlock BBC (and that's all I'm saying for now). I also have plans for a remix/rewrite of Unbreak my Heart (John had all those plans in case Sherlock ever needed him... what if he had?) And a couple other ideas are still being hatched.

So, that's that. This has been one hell of a trip, thank you to all of those who took it with me. I really hope you enjoyed the reading as much as I did the writting. And that's it.

See ya around (hopefully)!


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